


tell me about your despair

by nautilicious



Series: your body loves what it loves [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, F/F, First Dates, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally and Molly begin the dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me about your despair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holyfant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/gifts).



> Title and themes drawn from Mary Oliver's poem, [Wild Geese.](http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/geese/geese.html)
> 
> Thanks to [wearitcounts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts) for the beta. She gave me the gift of time when she didn't have much to spare, and I'm grateful.

Molly sipped her honey whiskey, thankful that no one could see her clearly in the dimness of the bar. She knew her face looked blotchy from the crying jag that followed the afternoon’s painful conversation with Tom. She rubbed absently at her ring finger. The skin felt fresh and smooth, the ring not worn long enough to make a mark.

She’d arrived early enough to get a table in the corner; by now the place had filled with people watching sport on the large televisions over the bar. She eyed the crowd with some concern. She’d need another drink soon but she didn’t want to lose her seat to get one. Just then someone stepped into her line of sight.

“May I join you, Doctor Hooper?”

Molly recognised the shape of her hair first, the curls distinctive even in silhouette. “Detective-Sergeant Donovan,” Molly said. “Um, sure.”

“Thanks,” Donovan said. “It’s a madhouse over there.” Donovan sat down, settling into her chair with a sigh, and took a long pull of her beer. Neither of them spoke. Molly wondered if the silence was awkward or comfortable, and then realised that in asking the question she’d answered it. Molly had drunk just enough that she didn’t rush to make small talk and Donovan seemed content to drink quietly, eyes focused on the telly. Molly decided that she liked drinking with someone familiar at her table.

Donovan had drunk half her beer when the sport fans sent up a loud cheer. Molly, in the act of raising her glass, nearly dropped it on the table. “Not your usual pub, I take it?” Donovan asked.

“I’m not usually a pub person,” Molly admitted. “Today was such a crap day it required special measures.” She took a sip. “And my ex got custody of our coffee shop when we broke up.”

“Wanker,” Donovan said.

Molly raised her eyebrows. “Did you know him?”

Donovan shook her head. “No, but I don’t have to. Most men are wankers.”

Molly eyed Donovan. “You have a crap day, too?”

Donovan laughed. “Yes, but not for that reason. I’m just off men for a while. The last go-round was frankly horrific.”

Molly believed her. She’d heard about DS Donovan during the two long months when Sherlock colonised her flat. He’d dissected Donovan’s character and professional methods, with snide remarks about her dating history thrown in, and Molly felt uncomfortable knowing things that Donovan hadn’t chosen to confide.

“I hear you,” Molly said. “I’m rather off men myself. Ready to hop the fence and run for the hills.” She downed the rest of her whiskey, and considered having another. She suspected she’d reached the good side of tipsy; the room had gone a little soft, her head felt swirly when she moved too quickly, and the difficult events of the day felt pleasantly distant. Donovan seemed nice and Molly enjoyed looking at her.

Molly took a self-indulgent moment to let her eyes follow the curve of Donovan’s neck down to where the top button of her blouse had loosened. Molly found herself wishing it would slide the rest of the way undone. Donovan’s skin was gorgeous, sepia light and shadow in the neon light from the bar, the pink of her lips matte and soft. Molly loved her hair, dark and vibrantly curled.

“Thanks,” Donovan said, and Molly realized she’d said at least some of that aloud. Possibly she should feel embarrassed, but Donovan seemed to take it in stride.

“Can I get you another?” Donovan asked. Molly nodded and Donovan slipped off to the bar. Molly watched her walk away, noting how her trousers snugged against a very fit arse. She frowned at her empty glass. Maybe another wasn’t such a good idea. On the other hand, Donovan didn’t seem to mind. She hoped Donovan hadn’t noticed the ogling.

Donovan returned with drinks and a companionable silence descended. Molly realized abruptly that they’d only talked about men so far and found that unacceptable. Another cheer went up from the crowd, so she asked Donovan if she followed sport.

Donovan nodded. “I do, though mostly through self-defence — it’s the conversation of choice in the break room at the Met. Easy way to warm up a suspect, too.”

Molly thought that one over. “Then I supposed it helps to watch popular telly, too.”

“Yeah,” Donovan said. “I did not willingly watch Doctor Who, that’s for certain, but it turned out to be surprisingly useful.” She leaned forward with the air of someone revealing a secret and the loose button of her blouse parted. Molly couldn’t help but look at the shadowed line of cleavage before she yanked her eyes back up to Donovan’s. “Don’t tell anyone,” Donovan said, “but I ended up sort of liking it.”

Molly licked her lips, and then made herself think about Doctor Who. “I understand that,” Molly said. “My dad was huge fan so I’ve seen more of the Doctor than anyone should have to. I didn’t always enjoy it at the time, but now it’s a way that I remember him. I wish he could have seen Matt Smith’s doctor; we would have had words about it, I’m sure.”

The smile lines at the corners of Donovan’s eyes smoothed flat. “Sorry about your dad,” she said.

Molly pasted on a smile. “It’s been a few years now.”

“I lost my mum six years ago,” Donovan said. “I don’t think the amount of time really matters.”

Molly nodded, unsure what to say next.

Donovan leaned back, took a drink. “So, Molly — I’m not calling you Dr. Hooper over a pint, sorry, and since I’ve bought you a drink you have to call me Sally — what’s the most interesting case you’ve seen?”

Molly struggled to think of a case that didn’t include Sherlock, and finally dredged up one from her early days at Bart’s. This led to a discussion of forensics in general and workplace bitching in specific, and more laughing that she expected. Sally had a dry, quick wit, even after drinking a few, and Molly found it delightful. The evening slipped past, the drinks appearing steadily and the conversation wandering through current events, favourite movies, Tesco pet peeves, and one slightly garbled story about Molly’s Crazy Aunt Alice. Molly felt warm and happy.

When Sally asked what Molly did to relax she had enough alcohol in her system that she answered candidly, with only a smidge of the self-consciousness she might have felt if she’d been more sober.

“Knit,” Molly said. “Read. Cook. Dreadfully mundane hobbies, I feel, but that’s the truth of it. I do go hiking every other week, though – I’d end up inside all the time otherwise. I have this thing I do,” she went on, “where I track my distance and see how long it takes me to get to various mythological locations. I’ve only made it to Rivendell so far, but I’m going to walk all the way to Mordor.”

“That’s quite clever,” Sally said, and Molly beamed.

Sally emptied her glass with relish and then asked, “Do you like jazz?”

“I think so,” Molly replied. “I haven’t made a study of it but I like what I’ve heard.”

“This pub is full of sport blokes and also some of my co-workers. There’s a club I like near Dalston Junction; we should go there. Or do you want another round?”

Molly, realising it was her round, made an attempt to get to her feet. The room spun and she stumbled back into her chair. “Ooh,” she said. “My knees have gone all tipsy. I’m not sure I can make it to the bar.”

“You’ll just have to owe me then,” Sally said. Her voice had deepened and her smile gleamed. Molly felt a fizz of excitement at the intensity of Sally’s gaze, her eyes dark in the dim light of the bar.

“I can handle that,” Molly said, returning the smile. “But I probably should get home. I don’t usually drink this much and I work tomorrow.”

“Ugh, Saturday shifts are the worst,” Sally said, tone light, and Molly decided she’d imagined a double entendre where one definitely didn’t exist.

“One a month,” Molly said, “it’s not too bad. And it’s quiet.”

Sally shook her head. “Without a Saturday lie-in I’m likely to commit murders rather than solve them.” She set down her glass. “How tipsy are your knees, exactly? Do you need me to get you home?”

“Oh, you can’t come over,” Molly said quickly. “My house breeds _susuwatari_ whenever I leave.” Then she cringed. Tom had introduced her to My Neighbor Totoro and she’d been delighted the scenes with the fantastical creatures that live in dirty houses. They’d joked about her dustbunnies ever since, but Sally probably thought she was crazy.

To her complete shock, Sally laughed. “Then I should definitely come over; soot sprites don’t live in houses full of laughter. I haven’t had this much fun in ages; I’m sure we can scoot them on their way.”

“Wait,” Molly said. “That goes well beyond knowing pop culture references for your job. That’s one of the most obscure things I’ve ever said to anyone. Except for a few comments about corpses. You watch anime?”

“My brother-in-law is half Japanese,” Sally replied. “He’s very into passing on his culture to their kids. My niece has made me sit through Totoro about thirty times. In Japanese.”

“I like to watch it when I’m sick,” Molly admitted. “It’s just my speed when I have a cold.”

Sally shook her head, a warm half-smile softening her mouth. “You’re full of the unexpected, Molly Hooper. I wonder how else you might surprise me.”

“If I vomit, that would be a surprise,” Molly said, and then put her hands over her eyes. “Oh god,” she said, “I have to go home before I embarrass myself any more.”

“You’re a lovely drunk, Molly. Don’t worry about it.” Sally stood, slipping her arms into her jacket. “Let me get you a cab.”

Sally did, waiting to make sure Molly got herself tucked safely inside.

“See you,” Molly said, and Sally gave her a little wave before turning back towards the pub.

* * *

“Oi, Molly!”

Molly turned with a squeak, dropping her clipboard on the table with a clatter. Sally stood in the doorway, and from the looks of it, she’d been trying to get Molly’s attention for some time.

“S-sorry. I was— thinking.”

Sally nodded. “Yeah, I see that.” She strode into the room, coming to stand on the other side of the table from Molly. “Is that my vic?”

“Yes,” Molly answered. “I’ve nearly finished. I won’t know for certain until the tests come back, but it looks like an overdose.”

Sally pursed her lips. “Not totally unexpected, given the company Mr. Morris kept, but something doesn’t sit right. He’d been clean for months; I thought he’d kicked it. I’ll want to know as soon as you’ve got those tests in.”

Molly nodded. “Er,” she said, and then thought better of it.

Sally raised her brows. “You’ve got a theory?”

Molly bit her lip. “I know you won’t want to talk to Sherlock, but he’s been running experiments on chemicals that mimic drug effects. If you wanted. Uhm. I could ask him.”

Sally shook her head. “Not a chance,” she said. “I know he’s been cleared but I won’t risk pulling him into one of my cases.” Sally’s eyes narrowed. “You know, not all of us in the Met are idiots. We solved loads of cases before Sherlock came along, not to mention while he was playing dead, and we’ll do just fine without him.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—“ Molly took a breath. “Look, Sherlock Holmes is an arse and most days I think I’d be quite happy to see the back of him, but you know how gifted he is. If your case bogs down, please consider it. Mr. Morris deserves justice.”

Sally stared silently at Molly for a moment before she said, “Fair enough. Call me when you have those tests.” She left with neither comment nor coat-swirling, and Molly got back to work.

Later that afternoon, as Molly struggled to keep her tears silent, phone pressed to her ear while Tom reiterated all of the reasons she should take him back, she heard the door open behind her. She said hastily, “I really can’t talk to you about this any more, I’m sorry,” and hung up. She wiped her face.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sally said, but Molly shook her head.

“I shouldn’t have taken that call at work,” she said. “Messes me up.”

Sally nodded. “I understand that.” The empathy in her eyes comforted Molly. Still, she felt relieved when Sally turned towards the corpse on the table. “Can you walk me through your findings?”

Molly showed Sally points of interest on the body and then walked her through the tox screen. Sally followed the analysis without some of the hand-holding required by some of the other detectives, which Molly appreciated; the call had rattled her nerves enough that she didn’t think she had it in her to repeat herself.

After Molly finished Sally gave her a considering look. “Care to check out that jazz club tonight?” Sally asked.

Molly blinked. She hadn’t taken Sally seriously about the jazz club. She felt a warm surge of happiness at the thought that Sally wanted to spend more time with her, followed by a flutter of nerves.

“Yes,” Molly said. “I really would.”

* * *

Molly arrived late, having had a fashion crisis before she made it to the club. She hated this part, not knowing if it was a date or not. If so, she wanted to look good. And, frankly, after the day she’d had, she wanted to look good anyway; fashion therapy at its best. In the end she’d decided to assume that Sally invited her out as friends, because Sally was gorgeous and smart and funny and couldn’t possibly be interested in more than that.

The club was packed–-not in any way the informal jazz dive Molly had imagined–-but the wave of sound that washed over her as she entered made her want to dance. Sally had found them a table. She’d changed outfits also, which made Molly feel better. Sally tended towards the more neutral colors of her co-workers at the Met but tonight she wore a dark green blouse with mouth-watering grey trousers. Molly mentally reeled her tongue back in and decided not to get ahead of herself. Her only expectation for the evening was to enjoy some jazz and Sally’s acerbic sense of humor.

“That’s a very flattering outfit,” Sally said after they exchanged hellos. “I’m off for a martini — puts me in the mood for jazz. You?”

“I think wine,” Molly said, “at least to start. Any merlot that sounds good.”

Sally returned with the drinks. “So. Is it worth saying anything about work? Because I’d rather shake the dust of the Met off my shoes.”

“I understand that,” Molly said. “I had to give Sherlock a pee test yesterday—“ Molly stopped abruptly, noticing that Sally’s lips had tightened. “Um, well. Work is stressful, yes.”

Sally shook her head. “It’s ok; you can talk about him.”

Molly twisted her fingers around the stem of her wineglass. “I know you don’t like him. It’s all right not to like him.”

“I did respect him at first,” Sally said. “Respected his skills even though he never once showed any respect to me. But after he faked his death, put the Met—not to mention the few people unfortunate enough to be his friends—through hell, well. Don’t respect him any more.” She sipped her martini, and Molly didn’t know if her frown was for Sherlock or the drink. “I didn’t intend to get into it tonight, but might as well take my chance to clear the air.”

Sally leaned forward, her words coming low and quick. “I did my job, you know? I saw something fishy and I stuck my neck out to find the truth, not that he’d ever see it that way. I’m not ashamed of that. And, ok, I got it wrong. I’ve paid for that mistake; it’s behind me. Doesn’t mean I want to have to work with him again. I don’t mind that you’re his friend, tosser needs friends like you even if he doesn’t deserve them, but I won’t be. Hope that’s ok.”

Molly took a moment to mull that over before speaking. “He is my friend, and I’d help him if he needed me, but I am a bit sick of his, well, sort of his everything. There was a time I think I might have done anything for him, and now I wonder why.” She took a long drink, then shook her head. “Tell me why you had the sudden urge for confessions?”

Sally leaned back, gave Molly a devilish smile. “Because I like you, and I’m going to ask you out again, and I didn’t want you to say no just because of Sherlock.”

Molly’s pulse quickened. “So this was a date, then.”

Sally raised her brows. “You did say that you were off men,” she said. “Hopping the fence and running for the hills, I believe it was. I know these things that can be tricky to navigate, so if I’ve misunderstood then let’s just have a drink and forget I said anything. But if I didn’t misunderstand, then yeah, I asked you on a date, Molly.”

Molly stayed silent for what was obviously too long, because Sally grimaced. “All right then, let me get another round and we’ll enjoy some jazz and bitch about our jobs some more.”

Molly leaned forward, close enough that she could smell the tangy citrus scent of Sally’s perfume. It made her think of dark rooms and soft sighs, and shadowed curves unveiled by candlelight. She wanted to see the slope of Sally’s hips, to press her mouth to Sally’s collarbone. She put her hand on Sally’s wrist, the skin warm and smooth beneath her fingertips.

“No,” Molly said. “I wanted this to be a date.”

Sally relaxed, turned her hand over to squeeze Molly’s fingers. “That’s a relief,” she said.They smiled at each other for a long moment, the wail of jazz trumpets lending the moment a feeling of triumph, before Sally asked, “Have you dated a lot of women, then?”

“It’s fairly recent,” Molly answered. “Mostly, well, casual encounters so far.”

Sally’s eyes darkened, darted to the swell of Molly’s breasts at the vee of her blouse. “I can do casual.”

Molly swallowed. “How about we start there?”

“How about now?” Sally’s voice sounded rich, heavy with promise, and Molly’s mouth went dry.

Sally stood, extended her hand. “Want to dance?”

Molly did.

**Author's Note:**

> People really do [walk to Mordor](http://www.nerdfitness.com/blog/2012/07/23/walking/).
> 
> As to the prompt, holyfant said, "I like it when characters negotiate their emotional/sexual needs, especially if they're shown to have realistic issues communicating and understanding each other...Realistic, imperfect sex that doesn't always work, that's a mirror of relationship or communication issues: hell yeah." I wanted to write some F/F, and here we are. The meat of holyfant's request is, alas, still in my head, but I've got an idea, and an arc, so I hope to give her a set of stories that she likes. 
> 
> I admire holyfant's work immensely, so you can imagine how nervous I felt to write this for her. Thank you, holyfant, for the amazing stories you've given us.


End file.
